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Lexa is curled up on her couch reading, as is her habit every night before bed, when she is startled out of her imagination by the sound of a fist pounding three successive times against her apartment’s door. Perplexed and a little wary, she sets her book on her living room table before edging her way to the door in order to spy on her unexpected visitor through the peephole. She’s shocked to see a familiar face, but the identity of her guest immediately eases the tension from her body, leaving her calm but curious. She unbolts the door’s lock and opens it wide.
“Clarke.”
For once the sight of Clarke doesn’t provoke a small smile from Lexa. It is the middle of the night, after all, and while she can still feel the characteristic fluttering in her chest that she has come to expect around her friend, her instincts are telling her to act neutral. Approachable but not overly eager. When the next few seconds allow her to process Clarke’s appearance, she realizes why.
Clarke is a mess. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen from exhaustive crying while still wet with fresh tears. Though Lexa knows Clarke’s hospital shift ended two hours ago, she hasn’t changed out of her regulation blue scrubs. Her golden blond hair, normally at least partially down or styled in a braid, has been swept up in a rushed, limp ponytail. And even though Clarke is the one who has shown up outside Lexa’s apartment without warning, she is now staring at Lexa like she’s lost.
Lexa instantly moves forward, her arms extending to draw Clarke into a hug, but her movement startles the dazed Clarke, and she responds by flinching away from Lexa’s almost-touch, her head turning away and to the side as she takes a step back. When Clarke recovers and relaxes her defensive posture, her gaze returning to the front to meet Lexa’s, her jaw drops. Her eyes widen as she realizes where she has ended up and with whom.
Clarke’s eyes scan Lexa, taking her in, and suddenly Lexa is acutely aware that she is wearing her baggiest sweatpants, the ones with the crotch line half a foot lower than it should be, and an oversized pinny with armholes so big that they leave her bra fully visible from the sides. Her hair has just finished drying after her evening shower, meaning it is completely untamed; Lexa almost closes her eyes in mortification at the thought of it piling chaotically down her back. This isn't exactly the look Lexa wanted to be sporting when Clarke came to her apartment for the first time. Then again, she didn't expect Clarke to be in tears either. Lexa decides to revisit her humiliation at a more appropriate time and refocuses on the woman in front of her.
Having had a few seconds to regain her wits, Clarke now looks both panicked and as embarrassed as Lexa feels. She holds her hands out, as though seeking to physically distance herself from what she considers to be her regrettable decision-making.
“I am so sorry, Lexa. I...I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
Her voice is full of contrition, and all Lexa can think is Don’t be sorry. Please stay. She is too full of tender affection to speak.
Clarke swallows thickly and closes her eyes in a wince.
“This was dumb. I should go.”
She moves to pivot away, but Lexa’s body finally catches up with her mind and she holds Clarke in place with a hand wrapped around her wrist. She tugs her gently forward by the same wrist while moving her other arm to catch Clarke’s shoulder on the other side. She moves her hand up and down Clarke’s arm, soothing the skin under the fabric of her sleeve, while lifting her gaze to meet Clarke’s blue eyes, the unsteadiness of which tells Lexa that she is teetering on the edge of more tears. Beneath Lexa’s hands, Clarke is shaking.
“You came here for a reason, Clarke, and you know it,” Lexa tells her, her voice firm. Wanting to have her full attention, Lexa moves the hand she has on Clarke’s arm to cradle her face instead. “You need someone to comfort you, and you chose me. Do not deny me the privilege of proving myself worthy of your choice.”
Lexa follows her perhaps overly sincere request with a small, self-deprecating smile and surges with pride when Clarke lets out a weak chuckle in response. She returns Lexa’s smile with a wry one of her own, and she looks like the real Clarke for the first time since Lexa opened the door.
“God, Lex,” Clarke says as she gently removes Lexa’s hands from her body in order to clear her face with a few rough swipes of her palms, “You’re straight out of Austen.”
She drops her hands to her sides and squeezes her eyes shut. She inhales deeply through her nose and exhales loudly through her mouth a few times. After a few seconds of silence, her eyelids fly open to reveal her now clear eyes. She sets her jaw, determined.
“Ok then.” She meets Lexa’s gaze, focused. “Comfort away.”
Lexa blinks, a little stunned. While still disheveled, Clarke suddenly seems steady. In an instant, Clarke has transformed from looking like a total wreck to appearing composed enough that Lexa suddenly doubts how much she can be of service. As she guides Clarke inside her home with a gentle hand against the small of her back, Lexa ponders the paradox of how Clarke Griffin can manage to make a moment of weakness look a lot like strength.
Once Lexa leads Clarke to her couch, she lightly presses her into sitting down before draping a blanket over her shoulders. She then makes her way to the kitchen and starts preparing the two of them something hot to drink. Clarke fidgets in her seat while she waits, giving all of the visible areas of Lexa’s apartment an interested glance before settling back against the couch and grabbing Lexa's abandoned book off of the table. She reads the cover before calling out to her.
“Really, Lexa? Non-fiction before bed? Don’t you do anything just for pleasure?”
Lexa makes her way back to the couch, mugs in hand. She takes a seat a respectful distance from Clarke while placing one mug in front of her and the other in front of herself.
“I’m doing something for pleasure right now,” she answers.
Clarke scoffs. “Yeah, I’m great company right now.”
Lexa decides not to correct her. “Just drink your drink, Clarke.”
Lexa eyes Clarke over the rim of her own mug and smiles to herself when Clarke’s eyes light up after she takes her first sip.
“Hot chocolate,” she murmurs, grateful but surprised. “You remembered?”
Lexa shrugs. “I would say a coffee date where neither person orders coffee is memorable, wouldn’t you?”
Clarke grins, her eyes playful as they dart between Lexa’s face and her mug. “And what’s in that? Tea imported from China that they only sell at Whole Foods?”
“Austria,” Lexa mutters in concession.
Clarke laughs, to which Lexa pretends to be disgruntled, before they fall into a companionable silence as they finish their drinks. Once she’s done, Clarke sets her mug on the table, grabs Lexa’s from her hands to do the same, and then lays down along the couch. She curls her knees in towards her body, keeping her back to the couch, resting her head in Lexa’s lap. In contrast to Clarke, who seems delicate and full of trust against her, Lexa is on edge, her heart thudding violently in her chest.
"Clarke, what are you doing?" Lexa asks tentatively.
Clarke snuggles further into Lexa's lap, and Lexa can feel herself flush with warmth.
"Getting comfortable," she responds.
Lexa doesn't have to see her cheeky smile to know it's there.
It's odd, Lexa thinks, how well she knows Clarke given how little time they've spent in the same room together. Technically, she and Clarke have only been on the one date. Lexa had been out of the country for the few weeks following and, even after she got back, Clarke had to cancel their past three dates because she was paged by the hospital. They haven’t even kissed yet.
What they have done is communicated constantly. Lexa sends Clarke links to articles and videos throughout the day to make sure she stays in touch with the real world even when holed up in the hospital for what seems like days. Clarke made Lexa download Snapchat; she claims she can only cope with the stress of residency if her friends bear witness to it with her. Sometimes, when their schedules line up, they Skype each other during dinner to create the illusion of eating together, with Lexa in her hotel room or apartment and Clarke in a secluded corner of the resident’s lounge. But above all, Lexa favors the phone call they share every night when Clarke gets ready for bed, keeping her phone on speaker. As Clarke rattles off the scary, exciting, and annoying parts of another day spent being both the most logical and least experienced person on her medical team, Lexa lies in bed, imagining how Clarke must be moving around her room as she talks. When she closes her eyes, she can imagine that she and Clarke are in the same room.
Sometimes, instead of volleying back retorts to Clarke’s daily commentary, she’ll offer up confessions of her own. It’s not something she’s used to -- she prefers to talk about ideas, events, other people...anything other than trying to verbalize how she’s been feeling -- but when she pictures Clarke pausing her nightly routine to stare at her phone, rapt with attention at what Lexa has to say, words come more freely than they ever have before. Talking to Clarke makes her thrilled, nervous, vulnerable, and safe all at once. Talking to Clarke is well-worn territory; touching Clarke is a world undiscovered.
Lexa starts by removing Clarke’s hair-tie, giving her access to lightly massage Clarke’s scalp and rake her fingers through her soft blond hair. Clarke closes her eyes in satisfaction, occasionally responding to Lexa’s ministrations with soft hums. Lexa settles into her position by extending her legs out to rest them on the table in front of her.
The giving and receiving of comfort through casual touch makes Lexa feel how Clarke always makes her feel: like the jagged, tender parts of herself are being smoothed away bit by bit. It feels like recovery. Lexa loses herself in their peaceful rhythm for a while before remembering what prompted Clarke to come over in the first place. Lexa stills her hands and gets her friend's attention by drawing out her name, her tone stern.
“Clarke…”
Clarke groans, displeased and petulant due to the disruption in their domestic bliss.
“What do you want me to say, Lexa? I'm a trauma surgeon. Sometimes traumatic things happen."
Lexa waits for the truth beyond the flippancy, but Clarke doesn’t cooperate. Instead of saying more, she starts playing with Lexa's leg, doodling lightly on her thigh through her sweats. Lexa tries to be patient, but she knows better than most the danger of ignoring an emotional wound, allowing it to fester and maintain its insidious hold. It occurs to Lexa that for once she isn't the one being stubborn and unwilling to show weakness. Maybe they can learn to take turns.
"Clarke," she whispers softly, "I know what it is to suffer in silence. I know that holding onto your emotions can make you feel powerful and in control, but you can let them go now. I will take care of you."
Clarke blinks, a bit stunned by Lexa's earnestness, but she responds with some supportiveness of her own. She gifts Lexa a small, smile. "You're doing great so far."
Then she bites her bottom lip, mulling something over. She casts a curious gaze over Lexa's face.
"Ok but will you follow your own advice?"
Lexa quirks an eyebrow, confused by the direction of the conversation.
Clarke rephrases, warm but a little frustrated, "Next time you're in a funk, will you let me take care of you?"
Lexa frowns. She replies, suddenly defensive, "I thought I did!" Then, her tone more even, she proceeds, "I find your presence very helpful, Clarke, even if it has to be over the phone."
Clarke exhales a small puff of air, exasperated. "That's kind of my point, Lexa. It doesn't have to be. If you need me, get your butt over to my apartment!"
Lexa can't resist her first instinct, which is to grin and deflect. "What about tomorrow night? I can sense sadness in my future."
Clarke rolls her eyes but Lexa can see her try to hide her smile. Clarke fixes her with a look of feigned antagonism.
“Jerk.”
What Lexa wants in that moment is to kiss her. She wants to pull Clarke up from her lap and show her better than words ever could how grateful she is to have met her. She wants to convey that she will genuinely try her best to seek Clarke's help when she needs it, especially now that she knows what it's like to be on the other side of things. She wants to act on her affection for this remarkable girl who can't accept generosity without wanting immediately to return the favor. But right now isn't about what Lexa wants, so she stows away her desire and instead runs her hand up and down the side of Clarke's face.
"I promise," she replies, nodding solemnly.
Clarke uses her hand to guide the one Lexa has resting on her face, bringing it to her lips for a soft kiss. The intimacy of the gesture is enough to make Lexa radiate with contentment. Clarke releases her hand and resumes her previous position of one arm wrapped over Lexa's leg while the other hand traces it with errant designs. It takes her a while to gather her thoughts and her strength. When she's finally ready to talk, her voice is steady but laced with pain.
"You know I haven't spoken to my mother since my dad died. She thinks that everything can be the same as before, even after what she did, but it just can't. And it's not that I can't forgive her. Maybe I could, if I tried. But I don't want to."
Clarke pauses to swallow hard before continuing, her voice now infused with the bitterness of a reopened wound.
"I didn't get to say goodbye to him because of her! Forgiving her...she doesn't deserve that. What she deserves is to know that what she did was wrong. There have to be consequences!"
On this point Clarke is emphatic, her mouth curling around her words in clear distaste. To her surprise, Lexa finds herself pitying Abby. It can't be easy to face someone you only ever wanted to protect, someone for whom you overflow with love, and to have her respond to you with undisguised and vicious hatred.
Clarke has shared her reasoning behind freezing her mother out before. The first time she had been cautious, intent on being persuasive out of fear that Lexa would judge her for being unforgiving. This time Lexa feels like she isn't the one Clarke is trying to convince.
"Clarke, what does that have to do with today?"
Lexa rubs what she hopes are comforting circles into Clarke’s back, trying to soothe the discomfort in Clarke she knows answering her question will bring.
"I sat with a woman who is dying." Clarke’s words carry an undercurrent of confusion, like she knows what sparked her breakdown but, even as she recounts the event, she is still struggling to understand why. “She’s been in the hospital for a few weeks now. She’s not even my patient, but she has this kid -- a daughter -- and everyone talks about them because they’re always joking around. The perfect model of making the best out of a shitty situation. Except today, as I’m walking by, I see the mom sobbing. At first it was because she had just gotten terrible news, but her chart said her prognosis was the same as it has been for weeks. It turns out she wasn't scared for the first time today. She told me she’s been panicked this whole time."
Clarke stops for a break, and when she continues she's quieter, like she's talking to herself now instead of Lexa.
"At first I thought she was going to say she was being strong for her daughter. Doing what she had to do for her daughter -- that’s what moms do, right?" Clarke’s aside is dripping with resentment, but then she frowns and furrows her brow before continuing. “But then she said it's her daughter who makes her strong. That she needs to be around her to be brave. She needs her daughter, not just than the other way around.”
Clarke says these words with puzzlement, her unspoken protest a simple: “That can’t be true, can it?”
Lexa gently challenges the implication as though it had been spoken aloud. “And why is that so hard to believe, Clarke?”
Not knowing how to answer, Clarke sighs heavily and closes her eyes. At first Lexa takes her silence to mean she is collecting her thoughts again, but then her stillness lingers for so long that Lexa wonders whether she might have accidentally lulled Clarke to sleep. Just as she considers this possibility, Clarke's response is set free from her lips and out into the silence surrounding them, like a boat carefully released into a flowing current as Lexa watches it sail by from the distant shore. Clarke's nine words are full of an aching, quiet disbelief and they're less a conclusion to the conversation and more a confession, borne simultaneously from hesitancy and conviction, offered up to the privacy of the night.
"I miss my mom more than I hate her."